“But why not try to get into the Forbidden Territory from the Street of the Roofers? It’s a lot closer, and safer, too, it seems to me.”
“Well, you see, Harold, the problem is that no one who has tried entering the Forbidden Zone from the Roofers’ side has ever been seen again. So is it really worth taking the risk?”
We both said nothing for a while.
“All right then? Come on, I’ll show you where you can sleep. But then again, why don’t you stay here with me?”
“Thanks, but I have to get a few things done in town.” I got up from the table and picked up my cloak.
“So when have you decided to go?”
“Tonight.”
“Tonight? Didn’t you say in a couple of days?” the priest asked in surprise.
“Well, I can change my mind, can’t I?” I muttered, heading for the door. “Be seeing you, For.”
“Good luck, kid. You’ll need plenty of it,” my old teacher said. “And I’ll think about what we can do with that demon of yours.”
Evening was coming on, and I hurried to reach the City of Magicians before all the shops closed. Otherwise I would have to fight whoever lived behind the magic wall with my bare hands.
8 CITY OF MAGICIANS
The inner yard of the cathedral was empty; all the faithful had gone home long ago. As I walked toward the exit, I cast a sideways glance at Sagot’s pedestal. Just as I expected, the beggar was long gone, and my gold piece with him.
Even in these troubled times the City of Magicians presented a very colorful spectacle.
The wide streets were lined with houses that displayed fanciful architecture, each one like a miniature palace, with a bright-colored tiled roof, lancet windows, and fancy little towers. And every house and every street strove to outdo all of its neighbors, upstaging them with its own prim, tidy beauty.
It was evening, and the lamps on the streets were burning with flames of different colors—pale blue, red, crimson, green, poisonous yellow, and orange. The lamps were magical, and they were always lit every night, no matter what happened in the city. Yet another wonder of Avendoom, spoken of at every crossroads in this world— the lamps lit up on their own, as soon as evening started drawing in, and they went out in the morning with the first rays of sunlight.
On that evening the streets of the City of Magicians were absolutely jam-packed with people. Spontaneous drunken revelry flared up on all sides, like forest fires. The people were celebrating. For a short time at least the citizens of Avendoom had been liberated from the terrors of the night and thoughts of the army of the Nameless One. They were all singing the praises of the Order and Archmagician Artsivus.
At long last the magicians had apparently succeeded in driving the fearsome beasts of the night out of Avendoom.
I merely chuckled. There was no way I was going to take offense at Artsivus for his enterprise in usurping the glorious role of vanquisher of demons. I had no use for that glory myself anyway. I was simply very amused by the move, which was worthier of sly merchants than the master of the high and mighty Order. I wondered how many similar glorious “occasions of victory” the magicians had been able to claim as their own in order to reinforce their own position. Never mind, it was none of my business.
The wide Street of the Sparks was overflowing with magical pictures. Every shop there felt obliged to outdo the one next door by creating more magical illusions to attract as many customers as possible. Above one little shop bright orange letters appeared, and then were transformed into a flock of illusory pigeons. Flapping their wings, the birds soared up into the evening sky, fused together into a small white cloud that sank down to the roof of the shop, and then turned back into letters again.
The people in the street took absolutely no notice of these wonders. There were more impressive things than that to be seen here. For instance, the sight of bolts of illusory lightning slaying an illusory ogre could have kept you enthralled for a year at least.
I walked straight through an illusion of a dragon and found myself in front of a perfectly ordinary-looking house. There weren’t any showers of fiery rain or horrific monsters or magicians in brightly glowing silver cloaks on show here. Never mind that—there wasn’t even a shop sign. This little trading establishment didn’t need to attract simpleminded clients with more money than sense. And the prices here were so high that not many people were willing to buy.
But people in the know came here, to this modest little establishment—they didn’t go to the shops bursting at the seams with magical baubles and bright-colored phantoms on the Street of the Sparks.
I pushed the door, and the little bell jangled merrily. Many visitors would have been astonished at the total absence of goods on display. But when someone came here, the owner himself carefully selected the things the customer needed from the storeroom at the back of the shop.
“Who’s that the Darkness has dragged in now?” exclaimed a low, none-too-polite voice, sounding like a bumblebee buzzing over a field of clover. “We’re closing, clear out!”
A short, stocky figure emerged from the dark inner room. If I stood beside him, the top of the shopkeeper’s head would barely have reached up to my chest.
Like all dwarves, he had a massive forehead, small, deep-set black eyes, and a heavy, protruding lower jaw. A powerful, barrel-shaped torso. Strong, muscular arms. And an obnoxious personality.
For some reason, many ignorant philistines from the deep provinces always get dwarves and gnomes confused. In fact, dwarves are fundamentally different from their relatives the gnomes. Gnomes are smaller and look less robust, and they also do something that no dwarf would ever do even under pain of death—they wear beards.
